Eliminating the Impossible
by Flywoman Returns
Summary: With Kutner's suicide preying on his mind, House calls in Taub to help him solve the case.


Disclaimer: These characters belong to Fox and to David Shore and his talented colleagues. I am borrowing them for personal pleasure, not financial gain. Please don't sue.

When I answered the page, House was in his office, his thinning hair more mussed than usual, his cane balanced across his legs. I received the distinct impression that I was being called in to see the principal and wouldn't get out without a beating. Sure enough, House paused only long enough to swallow a Vicodin before starting right in on the interrogation.

"Did Kutner say anything to you?" When I just stared at him stonily, House elaborated, "Anything relevant. Anything about feeling… isolated, tired, miserable."

"No. He seemed just the same."

"Did he ever talk to you about suicide?" House's bloodshot eyes bore into me, and I realized that, somehow, he knew.

"Once. I told him about a colleague who gave himself an overdose of insulin." House didn't say anything, and I found myself adding, "It was pretty touch-and-go for a while, but he survived."

"Your… _colleague_ got lucky," House said. I didn't respond. "How did Kutner react?"

I shrugged. "I told him the story because I wanted him to know that suicide is stupid and selfish. He decided that he had gotten one of his magnificent insights into something that was actually none of his business."

House nodded slowly. "Anything else?"

I didn't want to think back, to remember. The loss was too recent, too raw. But my boss was demanding this of me, so I racked my brain, trying to uncover a clue.

"That one patient who was being bullied. Kutner seemed to take the case kind of personally. We thought maybe he had been picked on as a kid, but he said no."

"Hmm. Did he seem guilty? Like he felt the need to make amends?"

"Maybe. When the case was over, the rest of us went out for drinks, but he said he couldn't come because he had something to do."

"Tying up loose ends," House muttered, maybe just to himself. He began ticking points off on his fingers. "There was no note. No alcohol or drugs in the apartment. If it was suicide, he did it sober, and he didn't want anyone to know why."

"Apparently he did a good job," I said, and instantly regretted the flippancy in my voice. House didn't seem to notice. He was already off on another track.

"Did he ever talk to you about his parents' murder?"

"It was hardly a secret," I said. "Besides, it was a long time ago."

"Did he tell you that the guy was coming up for parole soon?"

"No."

"Did he say anything about buying a gun?"

"No." I thought about this. "You think he found out and was afraid? That he got the gun to protect himself?"

"I do think that he was afraid. I'm not sure if the gun was for protection."

"Revenge?" I guessed. House stared back at me, his face unreadable. "That doesn't sound like Kutner."

House sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes dark. "I'm not sure how much we can trust what we think we know about what does and doesn't sound like Kutner." It took me a second to parse that sentence, but when I had, I had to agree.

House pondered for a minute, then leaned forward again, those penetrating eyes fixed on my face. "Did you go over to his apartment the night he died?"

"What, now you think maybe _I _killed him?"

"I'm not accusing you of putting the gun to his head, you idiot. _Did you go to his apartment that night?_"

"No," I said, starting to feel nervous despite myself. House had always been crazy like a fox, but I was starting to think that the stress of Kutner's suicide was actually unbalancing his mind. "Why would I do that?"

House narrowed his eyes. "Oh, I don't know… maybe to apologize for taking credit for his big idea?"

I stared. "How- Did Kutner-"

House cut me off. "Kutner didn't say anything to me. He was your friend. He covered your ass."

_Foreman, then._ "Yes," I admitted. "He did."

"It wasn't the first time that he was betrayed by one of the cutthroat colleagues he thought of as a friend," House pointed out. I remembered poor Cole, defiant and seemingly victorious, and repressed a shiver.

"This was nothing like that," I said. "I was the one in danger of getting fired, not Kutner."

"Maybe," House said. "Or maybe it was the last straw."

I had never wanted so badly to hit him. He couldn't possibly be right that I had had anything to do with Kutner's death. "Or maybe you're _grasping_ at straws, and this is the best you can come up with."

House didn't reply immediately. He tossed his giant tennis ball up and caught it, once, twice. Then he said softly, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"I have a patient," I said, and turned my back on House and walked out of the office. I fully expected him to call me back and tell me that my Jewish ass was fired, for good this time, but he didn't.


End file.
